


A Moment

by gnomeslice



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:06:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1322623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomeslice/pseuds/gnomeslice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days you feel like a hero, like you're truly making a difference. Other days there's just too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moment

**Author's Note:**

> non-graphic mention of domestic violence.

You feel like you're winning. You put together the puzzle pieces, see the small things everyone else missed, find the pattern, the clues, and you catch the bad guy. Some days you get murders off the street, a thief, or that weirdo in the park flashing random people. Those days, you feel like you're making a difference in the world. Some days you feel like a hero.

Other days there's just too much. Too many cases, people hurt, people wronged. There are so many cruel people in this world that you don't believe you could ever bring them all to justice. It weighs on you. The cases that go unsolved. Criminals turned loose on technicalities. Lawyers too good at protecting wretched and horrible people.

There are times when you're sure you've done everything in your power, and it's still not enough.

You can't change a thing. 

On those days, the most heroic part about police work is the ability to endure.

Today was a good day in your world. Hard work, dedication, and a keen eye for detail were enough to uncover a travel agency scam and arrest the men stealing thousands of dollars from innocent people. It was a good case, you're proud of the outcome, and showed all the attributes necessary to become the youngest Police Captain in the history of New York.

Today was a great day to be a detective in the NYPD.

“Go home Santiago,” Captain Holt calls from his office.

A quick glance at the clock shows that it's about an hour past quitting time. The rest of the desks are empty around you, a few lights already dimmed. Turning over your shoulder, you give him a sheepish smile, “Yes, sir.”

He knows that if he doesn't tell you to leave at a reasonable hour, you might end up staying all night. It's nice that he cares. You power down your computer and decide that everything else can wait until tomorrow.

The real question is what's for dinner? Pick up some take out? Something microwaveable? Minimal effort sounds great right now. You're shrugging on your coat and heading towards the exit when the elevator doors open. You expect it to be one of the night shift officers, sneaking up here to steal Boyle's good coffee, but the woman that strides out of the silver doors is not an officer and she's not alone.

It's Rosa, with a child. Rosa holding a child. A small girl, maybe three or four years old. She's wearing the detective's leather jacket over thin pajamas. Small brown eyes are looking around uneasily. Her tiny arms are helplessly lost in the jacket's sleeves but she still manage a grip around Rosa's neck. She looks scared to let go.

Rosa doesn't notice you, she heads right for the break room. Her steps quick and boots clomping. She usually uses this walk as a warning to get the hell out of her way. Which is curious because there's no one here to intimidate. You drop your coat on Boyle's chair and sneak over to the break room door. You're not sure what's going on but discretion never hurt anyone. Spying around the door frame, you see your friend balancing the girl on one hip, rummaging through the fridge with one hand.

“What do we got?” she mutters. The light from the fridge catches her frown, the guarded look in her eyes, the cut on her cheek. She inspects a tupperware of something and you see the fresh scabs on her knuckles. “Mold, fungus, and carrots. Great.”

“There's yogurt in the bottom drawer,” you offer quietly.

Rosa's eyes find yours sharply. They're so dark and just one brooding feature of her instant scowl. Her gaze falls away rather quickly. Dark curls fall over her face and you wonder if she's hiding from you on purpose. The plastic drawer in the bottom of the fridge rattles when she pulls it open. Are her hands shaking?

She takes a yogurt container and holds it up to show the child. She speaks Spanish in a soft voice you've never heard before. The girl doesn't speak, but she nods just a little bit. There's a bandage on her chin and angry bruises peek out from beneath the leg of her pajama pants when Rosa shifts her grip to stand. You understand now. Rosa was working something about healthcare fraud last you heard. Something about questionable insurance statements.

Still hovering near the door, you ask, “Did your fraud case turn into a domestic?”

“Wow, good solve,” Rosa bites back at you in a deceptively calm voice. “What gave it away?”

She won't be angry in front of this girl, she's even careful to close fridge quietly. You realize there's a chance Rosa is being unfriendly to try and scare you off. She's upset, you can see it in her tight posture, shoulders stiff with a bigger burden than the weight of the child.

You step into the break room, “What can I do?”

“Go home and iron your doilies, Santiago.”

“First, leave my doilies out of this, it's a very nice collection. And second, come on,” you step closer, finding a spoon in the drawer along the way. The child is watching you with a great deal less scrutiny than the detective. You hold up the spoon and ask, “What happened to having each others backs?”

The little girl doesn't wait for Rosa's answer, she reaches for the spoon. You smile at her warmly as she takes the spoon with her tiny hand.

“The perps are downstairs with Officer Polanski,” Rosa explains moving towards the table. “You wanna run down there and get an update for me?”

“Of course,” you agree easily. Rosa has her hands full and obviously wants to keep the kid away from the people that did this to her. You don't even make it four feet from the break room before you think to ask her a few more questions about the case and turn back. Then you pause, watching Rosa through the door.

She's careful when she sits, shifting the small girl into her lap so they can sit together. She's speaking in Spanish again and after a second the girl raises her hands so Rosa can roll the sleeves of her jacket back. You watch her smile, running her thumb over the girl's cheek and tug on a stray curl. The girl smiles back, it's shy but it's genuine. You forget about the questions you wanted to ask, you can figure it out on your own. There's something special about being able to make a crime victims feel comfortable and safe. You're not going to interrupt it.

Officer Polanski isn't hard to find and by the looks of it he was already on his way to find Rosa.

“Hey, Detective Diaz sent me down here for an update,” you point to the files in his hand. “Are those about her case?”

“Sure are,” he hands them to you and throws his thumb over his shoulder. “When these guys are finished getting processed, Detective Diaz will be the first to know.”

“I'll give her that message,” your eyes skim the report. “So um, what happened?”

“Diaz went to the apartment for some quick questions, sort of look around, you know?”

You nod, encouraging him to continue.

“Well dad over there didn't take to kindly to that, slams the door in her face. Diaz says she starts to walk away, maybe come back tomorrow, maybe with a warrant this time. She hears a commotion, told us the man was throwing things—pots or something metal. Heard screaming.”

“Right,” you see all this detail in the report statements.

“She calls for back up and by the time we get there the door is off it's hinges. We find dad curled up on the kitchen floor with his teeth kicked in. Mom is passed out on the couch with a BAC damn near deadly.”

“What about the child?”

“Name's Adriana, four years old with a pretty telling history of emergency room visits. We're going through the data for Diaz right now,” he explains with a frown. “The kid hasn't left the detective's side since we got to the scene. She took her to the hospital as an escort and everything. Social Services says we got a grandma en route to the station.”

“Got it,” you touch his arm and smile kindly. “Thank you for all your help, Officer Polanski.”

You take the stairs two at a time to get back to Rosa. She's right where you left her, yogurt empty on the table, face rather stoic, shoulders sagging with something other than her usual slouch. Adriana is still sitting in her lap, holding Rosa's cellphone, and from what you can hear, watching a movie. You smile when you walk through the door, trying to be nonthreatening and cheerful. Adriana barely gives you a second look. Rosa is more interested in the file, her eyes looks so tired but she tries to blink it away.

“What's the word?” she asks quietly, looking at you from over Adriana's dark hair. They're... cute together. It's not the best of circumstances, obviously, but seeing Rosa like this—protective in a much softer manner than her usual methods—it makes you want to watch her. You want to remember this particular side of Rosa and how safe she's making this child feel.

“She has a grandmother on the way to pick her up and Officer Polanski will let us know when they're ready for questioning,” you pull up a chair next to them both, setting the file down and pushing it towards her.

“Good,” Rosa's hand leaves the child's waist to flip open the packet, studying it quickly. “I think that's all I need, you can go home now.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I'm trying to let you off the hook,” she glances at her watch. “It's getting late.”

“So you could use some company—wait are you guys watching Finding Nemo?”

Adriana looks at you with this adorable little smile and you tell her, “I love that movie.”

She says something in Spanish that's too quiet for you to catch but Rosa murmurs to her in reply. Forgetting the movie, Adriana turns to see her face. Then you bite your lip to keep from laughing because Rosa is making this ridiculous fish face, sucking in her cheeks and manipulating her lips. You want to take a picture just to remind yourself that it really happened. 

Adriana loves it. She laughs, clapping her hands together and nearly dropping Rosa's phone. Her hand flies out, barely escaping the sleeve of the leather jacket, and pokes the hollow of Rosa's cheek. With a loud pop, Rosa drops the fishy face and grins down at the tiny girl with such a warm smile your heart sort of quivers for them both.

“Excuse me, Detective Diaz?” Officer Polanski stands in the doorway. Diaz prompts him with a trick of her eyebrows. “The assailants are ready to be questioned.”

Diaz gives him a short nod, “Ten minutes.”

“Any word on the grandmother?” you ask.

“None yet, Detective." He leaves without another word and you wonder about the small one.

“I can question this guy for you...”

The words come out smaller than you'd like. Rosa eyes you while Adriana regains focus on her movie.

“I mean, if you'd like to stay here,” you glance to the kid but Rosa already gets your point. “Or I can stay here, I won't let her out of my sight, scouts honor.”

Rolling her eyes, Rosa mumbles, “I can't take that oath seriously unless you make the hand sign.”

“How would you—wait, we're you a Girl Scout?”

She doesn't answer, instead saying, “Santiago, get downstairs and question the jerk.”

You're slow to reach for the case file in case she didn't mean it. You feel weird, sort of like you're poaching her case and sort of like you're really helping her out. You don't know what to feel. 

“Seriously, get going,” her voice is a little more reassuring than her average droll. “I have to find out what happened to Nemo.”

With that blessing you scoop up the file and head to the door, “Alright, if you insist.”

“Hey,” she calls to you at the last second, and when you turn you find a very dark look in her eyes. “When you're in there, don't do anything I _wouldn't_ do.”

The corners of your mouth quirk upwards. She's asking you to do everything she _would_ do, which is to walk into that interrogation room and not leave until the perp is crying for his mother. You tap your fingers against the door frame and sigh, “Police brutality is still against the law, but I'll get as close as I can.”

She raises an eyebrow in challenge, “Scout's honor?”

You make the hand sign and then trace one finger over your chest, “Cross my heart, Diaz.”

When you turn this time you swear you can feel her smirk follow you into the hallway.

–

Upon your return to the break room you're walking very tall. The questioning went brilliantly. Usually, suspects think they can get one over on you because you don't exactly scream bad cop. That's fine, they fall into a false sense of security and end up saying too much. You know just how to needle and how to get them to contradict their own lies. This time, however, you played a different game. You were intimidating and fierce. You didn't back down. You were as close to Rosa Diaz as you think you're ever going to get. The evidence provided from medical history of suspicious ER visits was a very large sword in your hand. There were tears. You're sure this man is going away for a very long time.

You're very excited to tell Rosa, you want her to know you did your best and kept your promise. You want her to feel a small sense of justice for the little girl she's been keeping safe for the past couple hours. You hope she knows that she's making such a wonderful difference.

But they're not there.

“Santiago, I thought I told you to go home?”

You jump, startled at the deep voice in your ear, “Captain Holt!”

If he's amused by your fright he's very good at hiding it. As he is with every other emotion known to the human spectrum.

“Um, yes, yes you did. And I was going to follow that order, because I would never not follow your orders except that in this particular instance, I thought it best to... postpone the execution of that order to benefit a fellow detective?”

He stares at you.

“I was just looking for Diaz,” you look back into the break room for any trace of the pair. “She has a case that came in late and—”

“Yes, I'm well aware,” he nods to the elevator. “Social Services just escorted the young girl out with her grandmother.”

“Oh, they came already?” your face falls, neck craning around Captain Holt to get a look at Rosa's desk. She's not there either.

“Yes, we're lucky that she has family in the city. And if you're looking for Detective Diaz, she excused herself to the ladies' room.”

Your eyes slide back to his, an embarrassed smile on your face, “Thank you, sir.”

“Finish what paperwork is necessary for the arrest tonight and then _go home,_ Detective Santiago.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And make sure Detective Diaz does the same.”

You wish him a very good night and awkwardly shuffle towards the women's restroom.

“Rosa?”

Carefully, you peek through the door to the ladies' room. Detective Diaz is standing against the sink, facing away from the door. In the mirror you can she her hands carefully folding a paper towel in half. You wait for a second to see if she's going to tell you to get lost. She doesn't.

“I don't like it,” she turns towards the mirror and you catch a glimpse running eyeliner and puffy eyes, “when it's the little ones. I'm all about the violence but not like that. I don't like it. That should never happen.”

Thinking it's safe enough, you step into the restroom and lean against the door. The space gives her room to breathe and a sense of support, you hope anyway. Even if you know it won't change anything you still say, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Rosa dabs the paper under her eyes, trying to erase all signs of ruined makeup. The hint of the tears. Any trace of weakness. She wants to eliminate any suggestion that the job got to her like this. It's a tough job, of course, but as a detective in the NYPD you're supposed to be tougher. You can handle the stress and you can handle the grime. You brush it off and keep going, because it's not like crime is going to wait for you to pull yourself together.

“Did you make that prick squirm?” she asks gruffly.

“Do you remember that noise Peralta made when Boyle accidentally kneed him in the crotch? It was sort of like that but with more tears.”

Rosa shoots you a sideways look, “You really made him cry?”

With a proud smile you confirm, “As a matter of fact, I did. It was actually a little awkward. Watching men cry always makes me feel so uncomfortable.”

She doesn't seem convinced.

“I can be intimidating,” you huff, putting your hands on you hips.

“Sure you can,” Rosa tosses the paper towel in the bin and fixes her hair just a bit. Not that it ever needs fixing, her hair is always a perfectly controlled chaos of curls. “You're pretty on par with an Ewok.”

“I... don't know what that is, but I don't feel it's accurate.”

“Don't worry, Santiago,” she moves towards you, leather sleeves creaking as she crosses her arms over her chest. She looks back to her old self, a tiny curl of a smirk showing on one side of her mouth. “It was a compliment. Ewoks are crafty little dudes. It never ends up well for the people that underestimate them.”

Even though you don't actually understand her cultural reference you're pleased that she meant it kindly. Your eyes fall to your shoes and you try really hard not to smile. Rosa doesn't like it when you smile sometimes.

“Thanks for staying to help tonight.”

That makes you want to smile even more. Unwilling to ruin this, you clear your throat and school your face into a very serious expression, “Thanks for letting me stay to help tonight.”

She's quiet for a moment and then she asks, “Are you trying not to smile?”

“What, no,” you deny a little too quickly. “What kind of person smiles during the shared experience of positive bonding between two coworkers?”

“So you think we're having another moment?”

You glance up to her face for any gauge of her mood. It's useless, she's just as unreadable as Captain Holt sometimes.

“I mean, we don't have to label it or anything,” you dance around the topic, scuffing your shoe against the tiled floor. “Or we could never talk about this again, whatever you'd like—”

Rosa hugs you then. And like nearly everything about Rosa it's aggressive and brash, you're actually squashed against the door from the force of it. Yet suddenly, in the rush of leather and citrus shampoo, Rosa makes so much more sense. She's holding you so tight that it would be so easy to miss the way her hands are trembling against your back.

Detective Diaz is intimidating enough to keep people from looking to closely.

Wrapping your arms around her, you hold her close. There is so much you want to say. How she did everything she could for that kid, how she made her feels so safe, how she's going to help keep that man away from her. There are so many things. You want to tell her she's one of the bravest people you've ever met, how you've looked up to her since the first day you met. You want to remind her that she's an incredible detective and she helps people every single day. She makes a difference in the world.

She's a hero.

You don't say any of those things. Maybe you'll be brave enough one day. Right now it's taking all of your courage just to rub small circles in her back and be the rock she needs right now.

Rosa breaks away, clearing her throat and not meeting your eyes, “Don't mention this—”

“Ever again. Not to anyone,” you promise.

“Right.” She opens the door and gives you a level, “See you tomorrow.”

“Right,” you nod to yourself because she's already gone.

So the day didn't end up quite like you had thought it would. You're still claiming it as a win for the future youngest Police Captain in New York City. You put away a bad guy and helped a friend put away another. As a bonus, you helped your friend with something other than law enforcement. The two of you had a moment even if she won't admit to calling it that. It was a good moment, you think, as moments go.

This is confirmed when you find a muffin and fresh coffee on your desk the next morning.

There's no note but the name on the coffee is the only clue you need.

In clear block letters, it reads, _Ewok._

 


End file.
